


Graveyard Shift

by softcorescorn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Sneezing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13617780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softcorescorn/pseuds/softcorescorn
Summary: Long-winded coldfic set in a world where magic has only very recently seeped out out of the fringes and into society at large. A handful of people have discovered an innate talent for it, but it's not a universally-accessible resource by any stretch of the imagination. It's more like a new field of study-- still shrouded in mystery and marred with consequences. (April 2016- eternity)





	1. Chapter 1

A half-empty glass bottle sloshed in the backseat. It had been lurching around back there for months-- always at the edge of their attention when the car was in motion, always forgotten by the time they arrived. It hadn't bothered him last week, or last month, but he couldn't help but grit his teeth at the tinny grind of its progress tonight. He thumbed the overhead light on, plucked a scrawled note from beneath the console, and scowled at it for the tenth time since sundown.  
  
Lawrence had grown up without navigation charms-- before the wonderless sorcery of GPS, even-- but, like everyone else, had adapted so quickly that now, squinting down at a handwritten list of abstract directions felt alien. Almost nostalgic, like they were hurtling off on a grade-school scavenger hunt-- only every item they needed to find was in one place, and the prize for getting there was life as usual. He clicked the light off.  
  
Immediately, that same free hand swept to his face. Thumb and forefinger curled around the length of his nose, giving it an anticipatory squeeze. He squinted beneath an urgent furrow of dark brows, determined to keep his eyes on the road for as long as possible before he  _actually_  sneezed. This time, that nagging itch didn't leave him in limbo for long.

"--- _nng_ kt!"  
  
The effort of trying to keep it contained rocked him gently in his seat. The leather upholstery gave a little muted squeak. He dropped his hand back to the wheel and heaved a long, low sigh.  
  
The silhouette of a hibernating amusement park skittered past his peripheral vision-- the last landmark on that piece of paper that Lawrence had actually laid eyes on, in person. In just a few weeks, the rides would squeal to life again: a swaying din of dizzy neon, belching humid fumes of hot oil and aerosol into the cool night air. For now, the static ferris wheel slipped by, silent and skeletal against the last gasps of daylight.  
  
Motion stirred in the passenger seat, followed by a sputter of sudden self-awareness.  
  
"Oh, whoa-- wow-- sorry, Lore!"  
   
"Did you fall asleep?" he chuckled softly, though the last forty-five minutes of silence had given it away.  
  
A creaking groan and a constricted attempt at stretching later, Agnes' voice had recovered to its usual ringing alto, "I wasn't even tired! There's just something about long car rides, y'know?" One knuckle pressed precariously to his nostril, Lawrence nodded in agreement, while she added, "I'm  _never_  the co-pilot, so I forgot how it feels."  
  
Using both hands, Agnes bundled the thick curtain of dark curls that had fallen into her face over one shoulder and peered out the window to assess their progress. She'd dozed through sunset and awoken to an unfamiliar horizon already freckled with the first specks of artificial light. She lifted a paper cup from the holder between them and frowned at its contents.  
  
"How do you feel about a break? If I'm going to be Graveyard Shift Guy, I'd really like to replace as much of my blood with coffee as possible," she gave the last, sad dregs at the bottom of the cup a little swirl, for emphasis.  
   
Instead of a reply, a stuttering inhale escaped from the driver's side.  
  
"-- _hd'ISSH_ uh!"  
  
Lawrence buried his face deep in the crook of his arm before straightening up with a few dissatisfied, ticklish sniffles.  
  
"Bless you!" Agnes chirped.  
  
"Thanks," he murmured, blinking rapidly at the road ahead. "Yeah, I could really--" he faltered, conscious of sounding too desperate for a rest. "I'm sure we can find something here," he nodded at the next looming exit sign and flicked on the turn signal.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They'd found a coffee shop easily enough.  
  
Moths clustered around a formerly-gas lantern, now fitted with an electric bulb that hummed yellow light out into the near-empty lot. A swinging sign, dotted with lacquered constellations hung above the entryway.  _The North Star_. Late hours, a stone's throw from the highway, and forcefully quaint. Close enough to civilization to be an unlikely haunt for predatory nocturnals, and unassuming enough that they could slip in and out, unrecognized. Lawrence pulled into a space close to the entrance.  _Hopefully_  slip in and out, unrecognized.  
  
Agnes was already unbuckling her seatbelt before the car came to a stop. She had strong-armed Lawrence easily out of his suggestion that she wait in the car, countering his line about "keeping a low profile" with the smooth bravado of "hiding in plain sight". He hadn't quite bought her counterpoint, but, sapped of the energy to argue, eyed the interior of the cafe as visible from the lot instead. Agnes had shrugged on a black cardigan and cracked her door by the time he twisted the key, quieting the engine.  
  
She hopped out and, with one soft forearm leaning on the door frame, pivoted back to ask, "You coming?"  
  
Lawrence craned his neck. The wide windows at the front of the cafe granted a generous view of the inside: all subdued lighting, citrus-colored walls, and framed botanical illustrations. A modest bookshelf stood in the corner opposite the counter, as did an unwatched TV-- both looking very grey, incongruous, and largely ignored. Two elderly men in green baseball caps carried on a spirited discussion at the table closest to the window, gesticulating over their matching travel mugs. As far as Lawrence could see, the rest of the shop was deserted. He shook his head.  
  
"Okay, well, get you a coffee...?" she offered.  
  
Lawrence briefly visualized the sensation of hot, acidic liquid grating all the way down his throat. He swallowed; that underlying stinging sensation bobbed away momentarily, but returned an instant later. "No, thanks," he replied softly, "I just-- I just need to stretch, I think."  
  
Agnes shrugged complacently and flicked him a quick, acknowledging smile, "See you in a few, then."  
  
The first greedy fingers of true night had begun to scratch the horizon as the loping outline of Agnes swept across the lot, disappearing inside. She reappeared, fully-rendered, in the window a moment later, her features ochre and alive by the warm glow of the electric lamplight.  
  
The moment the passenger door had slammed, Lawrence tipped his head heavily against the back of the seat. Both hands smoothed over the length of his face, beginning at the scalp, trailing slowly down his cheekbones, ending with the quiet rasp of stubble audible beneath his fingertips. Meeting his own heavy-lidded glance in the rear view mirror, he huffed a humorless laugh. Whether it was the events of the past few months catching up to him, or this untimely illness really settling in, his reflection felt drawn and strange. Maybe standing before their contact with all this gaunt grimness ground into his features would lend him the kind of severity he hoped to impersonate. Maybe it would allow him to bluff his way around inexperience, around a terminally gentle demeanor.  
  
He blinked repeatedly against the ever-present prickle that had been gathering between his eyes for the duration of the trip. It was a fleeting feeling yesterday, but had grown into a persistent tickle that made his eyes water and his breath snag in his chest. He caught a glimpse of the dire flinch of his own features before turning away from the mirror to smother another sneeze into the lapel of his jacket.  
  
"-- _hd'ESSCHuh_!"  
  
Better yet: maybe, their demonic consort would catch him sniffling, decide he wasn't a real threat, and send them easily on their way. That'd work, too.

   
  


* * *

 

 _"This is the worst plan I've EVER fucking heard."_  
  
"If you treat people like criminals, straightaway, they'll respond to that..."  
  
"You're not DEALING with 'people' anymore, Lawrence! You're dealing with things that will eat you up for breakfast and forget your name by lunch."  
  
He hadn't wanted to argue, but felt the driving, far-off fury of those eyes land on him-- foul and tangible, like a housefly the size of his head. "This is our only option right now. What else can we do?" He'd meant that to sound rhetorical, decisive, but his voice had wavered, rolled it over into a genuine, pleading question.  
  
"Go, but bring weapons! Hide them-- charm the shit out of them, if you have to! It doesn't matter, just don't meet up with demons-- in the middle of the NIGHT, in the middle of Bumfuck, Wherever-The-Hell-- empty-handed!"  
  
Lawrence shook his head. "The deal's already been made. No weapons, no spells. Untraceable."  
  
That disbelieving snort, trailed by a long silence.  
  
"Well. You've seen where compassion gets you with monsters."  
  
  


* * *

 

  
Lawrence threw the door open. He scrambled out of the driver's seat in a tangle of gangly limbs, like a grasshopper preparing to leap. He only made it a few paces from the vehicle before being seized by a series of hollow coughs. Drawing a steadying breath of cool, night air, he thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked a stray piece of gravel with the toe of his boot. It clattered away, nestling itself among a few pallid weeds that poked defiantly through cracks in the pavement. He tipped a bleary gaze up just in time to see Agnes returning in a jaunty billow of sundress and travel-cup steam, her arms piled high with plunder. Lawrence swept a sleeve roughly across his eyes and retraced his steps back to the car to meet her.  
  
"I got you one anyway, in case you change your mind," Agnes announced brightly. She nimbly cracked the passenger door open, juggling the small landscape of cups in the other arm, "and I only brought enough cash for  _one, but_ \--" she waved a waxed pastry bag, an evocative glimmer in her dark eyes, "-- I'll save you the cinnamon heart. The ultimate honor." She slid him a sly grin, which swept clear from her face the instant she laid eyes on him. He dropped back into the driver's seat without a word. No sooner had he planted his hands tacitly on the wheel than he jerked them away again with a shivering gasp--  
  
"-- _hd' **ISSH**_ uh......  _ **N’GISSH** uh!_"  
  
He sneezed twice with an uncharacteristic ferocity that left him reeling.  
  
Still standing outside, Agnes peeked in at him through the open passenger door. "Aw, Lore! Do you have a cold?" Her eyebrows knit sympathetically and all the theatrical bravado drained from her voice.  
  
He stayed frozen for a moment with a forearm still hovering uncertainly in front of his face, before dropping it resignedly into his lap and throwing her a sheepish half-smile in reply.  
  
"I knew something was up, but I thought you were just, I dunno... stressed out," Agnes flung the empty cup from earlier unceremoniously into the back seat and arranged her bounty of hot drinks in its place. She plopped into the passenger seat, and examined her companion pityingly. "You want me to go back and get you some tea or something? I mean, I spent all my cash, but..."  
  
He shook his head. She reached out and swatted his arm, without any genuine force or malice behind it, but he winced just the same.  
  
"Why didn't you SAY you weren't feeling well, you weirdo?!"  
  
"It, ah..." his voice faded out in a guilty hum. Agnes bent low, rummaging for something at floor-level.  
  
"You want me to call Eddie? Tell her we're gonna be late?"  
  
" _No_."  
  
She flinched at his tone, cocking an incredulous eyebrow.  
  
He sighed and pressed the heel of his hand to one eye, repeating, less urgently, "No, no… we can't risk any more contact, by phone or anything else," he smiled, soft and somber, "And I  _do_  appreciate it, Agnes, but we can't put this off."  
  
Agnes' face could not have crumpled into a clearer portrait of About To Call Bullshit if she tried. Lawrence raised both hands defensively, "What? You think I'll be getting a card from Mock in a few days? 'Dear Lawrence, heard you had the sniffles, decided to call off the whole destructive cult thing. Get well soon, xoxo'?"  
  
Agnes continued to stare at him, stone-faced. "Nah," she said, her voice flat, metallic, "I bet they'd seal it with a kiss instead. Just some big ol' red lips with your name on 'em." Earning a reedy chuckle from the driver's side, her face bloomed into a wide grin. It was a relief to hear him joking, at all.  
  
"Okay, so--" in one fluid motion, Agnes swung out of her seat and slammed the passenger door behind her.  
  
"Eh-- what? Agnes...?" Lawrence fumbled, taken aback.  
  
Instead of leaving, she marched in a purposeful arch around the hood of the car and tore open the driver's side door.  
  
"We should switch, then," she flicked a finger at the passenger seat, in an unmistakable "scoot over" gesture. Lawrence blinked at her absently for a moment. "First shift's over as of--" she lackadaisically mimed checking a wristwatch, "-- half-past move your ass."  
  
"Agnes..." Lawrence protested gently, "we still have to drive back after this..."  
  
"Doesn't matter," she leaned heavily on the door frame, examining her fingernails, "I'm an experienced trucker," her lip curled into an impish grin. "Get out."  
  
He was ready to protest further, but couldn't repress a tired, crooked smile as she truly committed to the bit-- squaring her jaw, and sinking into a brassy drawl.  
  
"You're smiling, m'boy, but little do you know: I've been truckin' since before you were born."  
  
"I'm... older than you..." he murmured under his breath, but dutifully swung his legs out of the car.  
  
Agnes raised both eyebrows, like a reproachful parent, even as he straightened up, dwarfing her, "Then I was a trucker in a past life!  _Geddout!_ "  
  
Night had fallen swiftly by the time they swapped positions. Agnes sat down and fumbled at the edges of the seat. “Are you kidding me with this?” She kicked her legs ineffectively to demonstrate the distance between the tread of her boot and the gas pedal, “ _You’re_  going to get us arrested. It’s illegal for a tree to drive a car, I’m pretty sure,” she found the analogue lever and racheted the seat forward at last, “ _DWT_ :  _Driving While_ \-- forget it.”  
   
  


* * *

 

Lawrence slouched low in his seat. Relieved of his driving duties, the hypnotic rhythm of passing streetlights lulled him into a murky, half-sleep. His thoughts drifted back to sitting in class, five or six winters ago. His professor at the time had shared an anecdote about a sci-fi writer who claimed to have entered an alpha state, akin to deep meditation, while staring out a car window at the even, flickering pulse of sunlight as it passed through the trees. Before the world had turned itself inside-out; when groping at someone else's mysticism was the most thrilling thing a scholar could do. Lawrence wondered if that writer had experienced the world. The underlying parts of it.

 _Couldn't be. That guy was a eugenecist, wasn't he? No self-respecting warlock would ever--_  
  
“ --hhd' ** _ISSHuh_**!”  
  
An abrupt, wrenching sneeze pulled him out of his daydream. He groaned softly, in spite of himself, tilted his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.  
  
"Bless you."  
  
No. She'd said it too gently, too kindly. Agnes' irreverent energy was the antipole keeping this whole ordeal in balance. If she wasn't poking fun at it, the other pieces of the plan might just split apart. Scatter off into space, jagged and dangerous-- a broken bottle on the sidewalk.  
  
"Thank you..."  
  
Despite Lawrence's best efforts to put the whole thing off, his nose had begun to run. In reply to the steady increase of spirited sniffling, Agnes slid her passenger a sidelong glance.  
  
"There are tissues in the glove compartment," she suggested.  
  
Lawrence popped the latch open and gratefully tore into the packet therein. He paused, tissue half-raised, and turned a suspicious eye on the driver. He was met with only her soft profile, all-too-dutifully staring straight ahead, badly suppressing a wide smile that was equal parts guilt and pride.  
  
"How did you know that...?" he narrowed his eyes from behind the tissue.  
  
Without looking, she straightened her posture, dropped her eyelids, and replied with all the breathy mysticism she could slather on.  
  
" _Intuition_..."  
  
Lawrence snorted-- both for her reply and for himself, for being played like a fiddle by the very same, over-the-top persona entirely too recently-- but she was already halfway through confessing before his feeble interrogation had a chance to take off:  
  
"Oliver and I went to the drive-in, actually. Last week," she slapped on a turn-signal and craned over one shoulder, "He's a real crybaby, for a dead guy, let me tell you. Okay, I cried the most, but--" she admitted without pause, while settling them into the next traffic lane, "-- but how many drive-ins do you think are left in America? You have to enjoy the  _good_ dinosaurs, while they last," a dark pupil glinted at him slyly from the corner of her eye, "... sorry."  
  
Lawrence rested his head against the window, a hot temple pressed to the cool glass. The bloodshot eye of a radio tower blinked at them through the gauzy dark.  
  
"It's not my car," he mumbled against the glass.  
  
Agnes gasped, as if to say something else, but let the doleful hum of the last late-night traffic speak for both of them for awhile.

  
 

* * *

  
  
  
Lawrence cracked the uneasy silence this time, before it swallowed them completely. "It's okay--" Agnes offered him a quick, puzzled glance. He cleared his throat roughly and continued, "The car, I mean. You don't need to apologize; you two can borrow it whenever you want. I just worry about you being  _seen_."  
  
Agnes rapped her fingers against the steering wheel. They seemed as if they might flutter away without the comforting weight of eclectic rings that would hold them down on any other day. Her lips tensed in and out of a contemplative line, as though she were testing out her reply before giving it voice.  
  
"I used to worry, too.  _Believe_  me," she piped up, at last, with startling clarity, "For a long time, actually. I wouldn't go outside for days. I wouldn't let him out, either, not that he--" she paused. With palms still pressed to the wheel, she chipped a few flecks of dark polish from her thumbnail, "That's no way to live, though. Hiding out in a basement for the rest of our lives? How is that any better than getting caught?" she steadied both hands on the wheel, "At least Oliver doesn't have to worry about being recognized. Dude could wear a suit of his own wanted posters and no one would put two-and-two together. Plus, he's got that whole supernatural strength thing going for him, these days, so if anyone got wise to him, he'd probably just break both their arms and skip town, I guess,"  
  
Lawrence rubbed his own arm protectively. No more than a few months had passed since the first time he'd met the two of them, under very different circumstances. He didn't need to be reminded of Oliver's strength.  
  
"Well," he said softly, "What about you?"  
  
"Me? I'm fucked!" she'd answered so quickly and casually that he couldn't contain a sardonic huff of a laugh. "I haven't found a glamour yet that'll take, and  _I_  didn't get any superpowers out of all this shit.”  
  
Agnes paused for a moment and sighed, "I know-- I know you're really sticking your neck out for us. If I could've done anything differently..." her expression sank, just for a moment, to an unknown depth, before bubbling back into a teasing grin, "... well, we wouldn't have beaten you up, for a start."  
  
"You hit me...  _ten minutes ago_ ,” Lawrence sulked.

“ _What?!_  Oh, wait-- that was just a little one, to strengthen your constitution! It's what wrestlers do!"  
  
"Were you a wrestler in a past life, too?"  
  
"’Past'? Have you seen these guns lately?"

 

* * *

 

 

  
As the last signs of the city dwindled out, so did the company of the last delivery vehicles, the last insomniacs out for a spin. The last nocturnal beasts desperately stuffing themselves into human skins, trying not to let a stray tooth or tendril spill out when they reached for their change at the tollbooth. The last apartment buildings trickled off, too, replaced by towering evergreens and the sort of high-intensity darkness that city-dwellers can’t even imagine with their eyes closed.  
  
Agnes drummed her naked fingers on the steering wheel, startled by how quiet everything had gotten over the course of the last few miles. Silent, but for the rush of the wind against the windows and the steady, slumbering breaths that escaped her companion's lightly parted lips.  
  
Agnes sucked in a long, slow breath, and exhaled a hushed string of profanities, as softly and sweetly as though she were comforting herself with a lullabye.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey.”  
  
Lawrence sputtered awake, vaguely aware first of a warm hand on his shoulder, then of the fact that his mouth had dropped open slightly in his sleep. He flushed in advance, waiting for Agnes’ inevitable comment on this, but she wasn’t looking at him. She withdrew her hand.  
  
“Sorry, if I scared you. We’re almost there.”  
  
At some point in the last hour, smooth, black asphalt had given way to the craggy disrepair of country roads, then to the wild crunch of unpaved dirt. Agnes pulled over at the mouth of a dark, spindling road, fortified on either side by a wall of looming evergreens.  
  
“You okay to pull up?” Faint light reflected in her eyes as she turned, apparently trying to assess his condition through the dark, “I should probably…” she jerked a thumb at the backseat.  _Hide_. As usual. And sounding no more thrilled about it than ever.  
  
“I-- yeah,” he said absently, giving his head a quick, rough shake in an effort to dislodge any lingering sleep. “Yeah...” It sounded even less convincing the second time, but the fact that they sat idling at the mouth of this particular trail meant that they couldn’t have been more than a few miles from their destination.  
  
The two circled the car quietly-- Agnes sliding low into the backseat while Lawrence’s hands seized the wheel in a fidgety grip. The hanging chill in the air and the thought of exchanging words with an unpredictable entity in a few moments’ time shocked him quickly into a state of alertness. He muffled a cough into his fist. Near-alertness. They ground slowly, steadily onward under a dense canopy of branches that gnarled in and out of sight as the headlights swept over them.  
  
After what felt like an endless crawl, the tunnel of trees finally burst into wide, open space. A field sprawled out before them. The still-sparse grass of early spring blazed aluminum under the surrogate daylight of a waxing moon. The specter of a baseball diamond, not yet revived after a long winter, was faintly visible, pressed into the far end of the field. A smattering of disused picnic tables oozed long shadows against the light of a single lamppost.  
  
As they pulled into the small dirt lot that hugged the edge of the park, Lawrence cut the headlights. The two of them waited, without a word. A few minutes trickled by, then half an hour. Silent, but for the occasional sniffle or rustle of restless movement.  
  
Lawrence’s eyes swept over the field for what felt like the hundredth time. Still no visible movement, except for a few soft ripples across the man-made pond that dipped into the center of the park. A faint twinge of unease began to rise from the pit of his stomach.  
  
Eddie wasn’t the kind of demon to hide out and wait for them. Her idea of subtlety was disguising as 6’2” of broad muscle and bristling mohawk. Lawrence was sure that if she’d arrived first, she wouldn’t hesitate to approach  _them_ , albeit without any sense of urgency. “Late" seemed in-character, but as as thirty minutes became nearly an hour, “waiting patiently” became “sitting around”.  
  
“Where is she?” Lawrence whispered at last. Agnes’ watchful eye was palpable, but she stayed quiet. With one last look at the woods, he grazed the door handle with his fingertips, hoping he’d see the pinprick glow of a lit cigarette emerge from one of the hiking trails, followed by Eddie’s broad silhouette. She’d approach the car in her usual unhurried saunter, remove all doubt, and absolve him of the responsibility of making the first move.  
  
Of course, she didn’t.  
  
Lawrence’s chest swelled with a quick, bracing breath. He pulled the handle, rose to his feet, snapped the door shut. He took a few long strides towards the lamppost, already wondering how long he’d bother standing there, dumbly, in the middle of an empty park, in the middle of the night, with a nagging headache and no hope at a cell signal. He was already planning out what he’d say to Agnes-- what he’d say to everyone else-- when he slouched back empty-handed. And why WOULDN’T a demon stand him up? She lived a life of genuine freedom, unhindered by mortal law, unintimidated by any authority. She was probably miles away in some dive-- soaking in the clammy, frantic weekend energy of working-class humans, hands busy with beer and billiard cues, gleefully riling up as many patrons as possible. Not a single thought to spare for this meeting, their cause, or that fucking duck pond. How would he break the news, after that long drive home?  _“Sorry, everyone. Eddie was just fucking with us. There’s no curse, and we’re back to Square One, but I did get you some off-brand candy at the gas station on the way back, which is almost as good, so--_ ”  
  
Suddenly, Lawrence froze. Frosty dread pounded in his ears.  
  
Standing out, putrid and white between the trees, something lurched to life. An uncanny mangle of bony legs and glistening flesh. It peeled apart into three, four separate creatures. Their features remained hazy in the dim lighting, but one thing was certain: four pairs of beady, wide-set eyes were trained on him, flashing bright like wild animals caught under a floodlight.  
  
Three of them settled onto a rotting park bench in a motionless row, while one surged forward on too-long hind legs. Its movement was tremorous, unsteady, like a flickering flame, as if it were uncertain how much distance was appropriate to consume with each step. Because it hadn’t mauled him outright, and because it was already too close by the time he conjured up the coordination to move, Lawrence straightened his posture as it slowed its approach.  
  
It halted, a few feet from him. Its skin shone in the moonlight, bleached and rubbery like a sea mammal, as it loomed close, smooth head oscillating in a strange socket as it examined him with milky marble eyes that seemed improperly small for its face.  
  
Lawrence cleared his throat. “Hello,” he offered, “If I’m trespassing, I’ll leave without any trouble...” his voice had grown murky in the past few hours, but his tone stayed deep and even. Diplomatic, if it mattered.  
  
As soon as he’d finished speaking, the creature’s jaw swung open like a broken suitcase, revealing row-upon-row of sallow shark’s teeth. It made no effort to advance-- just sat back on tense haunches, jaw unhinged impossibly wide. After a moment, a voice crackled forth from its still-motionless mouth, as if it were an organic phonograph:  
  
“Agnes Davila.”  
  
Lawrence’s lower eyelid quivered involuntarily against the rush of hot animal breath, but he said nothing. The creature flexed its jaws before dropping them open again, to clarify.  
  
“The alchemist,” it persisted in that same distant, clarinet-squawk of a voice.  
  
“I’ve read the tabloids, sure...” he tried to sound unconcerned, but felt the hot prickle of sweat on his palms. He wasn’t sure if it even understood. The other animals rose from their perch and began to drift closer.  
  
Their ambassador shuffled its talons in the dirt impatiently. “Agnes Davila,” it repeated, at the same register as before.  
  
“It sounds like we’re both here looking for someone else... unfortunately...” Lawrence shrugged, forcing himself not to turn around as the other creatures twitched and shambled closer, surrounding him, craning their strange necks curiously at the parked car.  
  
The first creature cocked its head at Lawrence with a grinding click before it spoke again. This time, its woodwind voice swung low and sinister.  
  
" _The_   _necromancer_."  
  
Lawrence took a half-step back. The creatures froze in place, their hungry eyes transfixed on him. As he opened his mouth to force out a denial, the sound of shattering glass rang out from the parking lot behind him.  
  
The three surrounding creatures sprang to life instantly, vaulting past him like jackrabbits to swarm the parked car. Lawrence whirled to shout a warning over one shoulder, but felt all of the breath leave his body as the first creature hurled a swift kick to his stomach. He dropped heavily to his knees.  
  
Over the sound of the animals' ugly, gleeful yelps, Agnes’ voice cried out.  
  
Panicked, Lawrence pressed a forearm to the grass and tried to force his way to standing. Slowly, too slowly, his leaden limbs brought him to a crouch. Between the frantic tangle of bony, white legs, he caught a glimpse of Agnes, slouched a few feet from the car with one palm pressed to the dirt. Strangely, the creatures had stopped in their tracks. They paused in a huddle, swaying from foot to foot, rattling their heads at each other.  
  
_Hesitating._  
  
When Agnes raised her head at last, Lawrence realized that what he’d mistaken for great, racking sobs were actually the first peals of self-satisfied laughter, which swelled into a near-hysterical cackle of relief as she raised her free hand and flicked a speckled shard of glass away into the parking lot, as carefree as if she were skipping a stone.  
  
Then, he understood why the creatures had halted their approach. He felt it, too.  
  
Something terrible-- resonating in a space between sound and feeling-- rose over the field. Something shrill and electric that invoked the same kind of primordial anxiety as the clammy breeze before an imminent hurricane. Like the slow, splintering shriek of a falling tree. Like the hiss of dense flames consuming a neighbor’s home. Lawrence clamped both palms to his ears instinctively, but it didn’t help.  
  
Two of the pale animals took a few uneasy steps backward, before deftly dropping to all fours and bounding off into the woods. Two remained, their elastic jaws clamped into matching snarls, their murky white eyes still trained on Agnes.  
  
She withdrew the other hand and scuffled away from where she’d sat, revealing an angry, round welt the size of her palm blazing against the dark earth. As the sound and sensation swelled, the mark bled outwards into a spidering, circular fissure. Veiny cracks ate away at the ground, threatening to form a sinkhole that would swallow the entire lot. Instead, the crimson fractures slithered to life-- converging into tendrils that rose snakelike into the air. More and more strands drifted unbidden from the spot, lashing together into a tangled, humanoid shape, like a rogue circulatory system out for a late-night stroll.  
  
Lawrence turned away, not for lack of curiosity, but for the overwhelming sense of unease that arose from looking directly at it. The din dissipated as quickly as it began, and a tense hush fell over the field.  
  
A sneering tenor pierced the silence, mocking and musical.  
  
“I had to get off the couch for  _your_ Fresno Alien-lookin’ ass?”  
  
Lawrence heard the monsters’ ire well up in a gurgling snarl, but he breathed a sigh of relief. There was no reason to look. He heard the grind of claws against the dirt as they braced to attack, heard the momentary snapping of jaws, heard the sickening crack and whimper of blunt force. Felt the vibration through the ground as one of them fell, scraped clumsily to its feet and yelped to its fellow. Lawrence flinched, feeling their heavy, uneven footfalls approaching, but instead of rounding on him again, they swerved past at a frantic canter, limping and bellowing all the way to the edge of the park. Their preternatural baying still hung on the breeze long after they’d crashed away into the trees and out of sight.  
  
And then, stillness.  
  
Lawrence rolled flat onto his back for a moment and draped a forearm over his eyes, grateful for the feeling of the cool earth beneath him. Familiar voices hummed a few yards away. Even though they were just across the field, he felt like they were calling out from the bottom of the sea.  
  
“Alright, Agador?”  
  
“I wrapped it with the goddamn buttons on the inside!” Agnes wailed. She raised her right hand, now bundled in her sweater as a makeshift bandage.  
  
Lawrence heard the soft, even rush of purposeful steps draw closer.  
  
“Lawrence? You okay?”  
  
Lawrence raised his elbow just enough to peer out of one eye at the rakish features of a young man leaning over him. He knelt close, face creased with concern, clothing spattered with blood. His eyes swept over Lawrence’s prone body.  
  
“Are you… hurt?”  
  
“No,” Lawrence sighed, “I’m alright, just--”  
  
“He got socked in the gut!” Agnes decried across the lot. She was already on her feet, scuffing out the circular scorch-mark with the toe of her boot.  
  
“Oh. You saw that…” Lawrence winced.  
  
A hand extended to him. A labyrinth of scar tissue and greying inkwork stood out against that sallow forearm in the moonlight.  
  
Lawrence closed his eyes wearily. “Oliver, you’re covered in demon blood,” he felt a twinge of both embarrassment and relief at how strongly the sight still bothered him.  
  
“As God intended, right?” Oliver grinned, but straightened up and scrubbed his hands down the front of his jeans. Their dark wash concealed the stain, but not its meaning. He re-offered his hand, which Lawrence gratefully accepted, finding himself hoisted easily to his feet by the forearm.  
  
Lawrence cast a final, uneasy glance back at the woods. No movement but the swaying shadow of early leaves.“You were right,” he murmured listlessly.  
  
“Listen," Oliver raked his fingers through his hair. It had probably been dyed something vibrant in the recent past, but now faded into a coarse, muted rust. "Normally, it’d give me the full-body shivers to hear you say that, but don’t beat yourself up over--”  
  
“Uh, m’boys!” Agnes’ voice rang out urgently across the field. “Anyone with their ear to the ground will have heard that shit for MILES, so we really need to get a move on.”  
  
“I’ll drive,” Oliver announced calmly, as they made their way back to the lot.  
  
“Nope!” Agnes shouted back without pause.  
  
“You always drive."  
  
“Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?”  
  
Oliver squinted, “You’re flipping me off, aren’t you? Agnes-- first of all-- you’re a grown woman...”  
  
“I wasn’t! You know who would be a better driver than you? Two moles taped together.” She jangled the car keys impatiently, “Let’s goooo.”  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. A small, low thrum of a chuckle rose in Lawrence’s chest. Now that the residual adrenaline of the ambush had begun to wear off, he could feel true, bone-deep exhaustion sinking into his limbs. Still, he couldn’t help but smile-- for two people as resourceful as Agnes and Oliver to slip so easily into the catty ribbing of siblinghood at a time like this was endearing. Or, at least, distracting.  
  
Lawrence stepped over the remnants of the broken bottle at the edge of the lot and climbed into the backseat.


	3. Chapter 3

They were drifting smoothly along the highway by the time any of them piped up again.  
  
“So...” Oliver fiddled with a scrap of paper in the front seat, “do you think Ed went sour on us or what?”  
  
The crimson flare of tail-lights ahead was a welcome sight. The faster they could disappear into the easy, mundane flow of late-night traffic, the farther that great beast that was their worry seemed to trail behind.  
  
“Why would she? Money…?” Agnes mused, trying to replay every encounter they’d had with the demon in her memory, “She’s never shown any interest in collecting the bounty  _before._  Plus--” she raised a forefinger meaningfully, clutching the wheel with her uninjured hand, “She  _definitely_  would’ve come herself if she’d suddenly decided to turn us in. She's totally overpowered compared to us, and  _she knows_  it. She’d have no reason to send those--” Agnes twirled her wrist in Lawrence’s general direction, prompting him to fill in the blank. He gave a small, dejected shrug.  
  
“I don’t know what they were,” he admitted. His voice rumbled low, dull with congestion, “I’ve never seen them before.”  
  
“Shit, really?” Agnes flung him a quick look of disbelief over her shoulder before frowning back at the road. “Me neither. That’s not exactly reassuring.”  
  
“Do you think  _they_  were trying to cash in, then?” Oliver persisted, still idly folding and unfolding the list, “They didn’t seem very smart.”  
  
“Mimics,” Lawrence murmured hoarsely from the backseat. “One of them said Agnes’ name, but its mouth didn’t move. It just--” he paused to clear his throat a few times. His mind had grown hazy with fatigue, and conjuring up an accurate description was proving more difficult than usual. “It just sort of… projected the sound. Like a recording. It was just repeating a name that someone else fed it. I think.”  
  
Agnes thumped the wheel angrily. “That still points to Eddie, then! No one else knew we were meeting, right? Even if one of Mock’s people tailed her, they’d have no way of knowing I'd be with you!”  
  
Lawrence sunk low in his seat, dragging a weary hand across his forehead. “I’m not sure if Eddie even called us in the first place,” he croaked dismally. “Anyone or anything capable of mimicry would've only needed to hear her voice a few times to impersonate her over the phone.”  
  
“Are you sure? Oliver’s right; they seemed stupid as fuck.”  
  
“No... I’m not sure,” he sighed, pressing a knuckle to the side of his nose in an effort to ward off the dreadful itch fluttering at the edge of his attention. He knew it wouldn't work for long, but paused, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment, before continuing, unsteadily, “I think someone must’ve hired them or… trained them, maybe. They seemed awfully animalistic. Easy to motivate, if you know how.”  
  
Oliver tried to sail a tiny paper airplane into the back of the car, but it nosedived pathetically into the crack between the seats. “Maybe it was-- what was his name?” he glanced down at the crash-site of his ill-fated airplane, “That guy who used to come by the shop all the time...”  
  
“What guy?" Agnes gave a short but hearty laugh, "I don’t miss  _Tincture Ted_  one bit, if  _that’s_  who you mean…”

  
“No, not him. The guy who always showed up in velvet suits,” Oliver's contemptuous grin gleamed through the darkness, “Even when it was eighty degrees, he’d bust right in, leaving a sweat trail the whole way. Used to deal in weird animals, though, remember? Probably made most of them up,  _but_  he never stopped talking about it.”

  
Agnes blinked, “I don’t remember him.”

  
“Yeah, you do. He was trying to start a circus or something. Left about fifty business cards. Always called you  _'darling'_."

  
Agnes snorted, “Gotcha. I must’ve put a hex on myself just to forget his nasty little face! You think  _that_  guy was capable of  _this_? If whatever we saw tonight has stumped  _our_ entire panel of nerds, then they might be something totally new. A custom-conjuring, you know? I bet someone made them with something specific in--”  
  
 _“EHD' **ISSH** UH!”_  
  
Agnes flinched. Oliver peered slowly over his shoulder, his expression unreadable through the dark.  
  
“Eh… sorry,” Lawrence mumbled sheepishly, succumbing to a few weak sniffles in the wake of it.  
  
“Aw, Lore, how are you feeling, anyway?” Agnes glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. Through the dim car interior, it was more of a protective gesture than a practical one.  
  
Oliver craned his neck around the headrest to get a better look, “Why? What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, in those words, but his face etched with concern.  
  
“Er, no, it’s--” Lawrence balked, flushing a little under their combined attention, “Nothing to worry about.”  
  
Oliver cocked an eyebrow skeptically, but relieved Lawrence of his gaze. He shifted in the passenger seat, planting his chin in one hand, eyeing the incomplete outline of a burnt-out building as it slipped past the window.  
  
“I dunno. Being punted by a Mystery Monster on top of being sick doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun Saturday night,” Agnes huffed a hollow laugh. When no one responded in kind, she clicked her tongue in a sharp, little rebuke, “I’m sorry, Lawrence. I should have stepped in sooner,” she took a quick, bitter sip of now-lukewarm coffee and grimaced, “I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, but you looked so chill about it, at first," she sighed, smoothing a steadying hand over the dense, spiraling curls at the top of her head, "I thought maybe you knew something I didn't, y'know?"

Lawrence shifted restlessly. With each road sign that hurtled by, the names grew more comfortable and familiar; they were making better time on the return trip than they had on the way out, but he felt like he’d been crammed into that car for days. The air inside felt oppressive-- impossibly hot and cold at the same time. A shudder dragged down his spine, out of time with the dull pounding in his head.  
  
“I led us into a deathtrap,” he hadn’t meant to say it, but the words slithered out, flat and morose. He raised a bleary eye to the back of Agnes’ head, “You used a summoning spell out in the open--” Agnes readjusted her hands uneasily on the wheel, but didn’t look back, “--and if you hadn’t, we’d both be dead.”  
  
Oliver glowered out the window, chin still pressed into his palm.  
  
Agnes sank into a soothing tone, “It was a mistake, dude. And, anyway, they weren’t going to  _kill_  anyone. They were just there to collect." She forced a shrug, "Sure, it would've been nice to get that spell squared away, but we'll figure something out. We’ve weaseled out of worse. Right?” She flicked a quick smile over her shoulder this time, to see if her reassurance had worked. He was still slouched against the window, features grim with a veneer of guilt.  
  
He sighed, rubbing his eyes with both hands, “We’re exactly where we started, only I’ve brought more heat on you both..."  
  
 _“Lawrence.”_  Oliver cut in irritably, “You didn't know how this would turn out."  
  
“ _You_  did,” his voice ran rancid with regret, “This was so far-fetched. I can’t believe I fell for it.”

Oliver clapped both hands to his knees, “ _Okay_ \--” he declared, almost as a threat. "Hang on. I'm coming back there." He unclipped his seatbelt decisively.  
  
"What? No!" Agnes bellowed, throwing an arm out in front of her brother to bar his progress. "Are you joking? No! Absolutely not! There will be  _no_  climbing around  _while the car is in motion!_ What the fuck!" All statements, no questions.  
  
“Okay, fine, well--” Oliver mumbled, twisting clumsily around in a jangle of loose change and misplaced knees until he was perched with one tattooed arm wound around the back of his seat. The entire action had been graceless enough to jostle Lawrence out of his malaise temporarily. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Oliver, who offered a toothy grin in reply, from his new, uncomfortable-- but slightly-less-obstructed-- vantage point.  
  
Without looking, Agnes pointed accusingly at each passenger in turn, aiming for stern, but nowhere near suppressing a laugh, “Y’all are worried about monsters? Here's a plot twist for you: the  _real_  monster is your lack of basic car safety!"  
  
"Anyway," Oliver’s smile dropped, replaced by that unwavering stare. It was funny-- Agnes and Oliver didn’t look much alike, at this point, but their expressions betrayed a biological link right away. That same reckless sneer. That slow, devious curl of a smile. And, of course, this piercing gaze of _I’m going to try my best to be sincere, so you’d better listen while it lasts._  
  
Whatever rallying speech Oliver had planned, Lawrence didn’t have a chance to hear it. He jerked his head away with a sudden, trembling breath. For lack of a more timely option, he pulled his shirt collar over the lower half of his face an instant before being overwhelmed by another set of wrenching sneezes.

"--hhd' ** _ISSHuh_** … --nd’ _ **ISHH** iuh!”_ They were coming more quickly now, irrepressible.  
  
Oliver’s grip on the leather seatback slackened. He reached behind him to fish, one-armed, through the glove compartment for the remnants of the rogue tissue packet. Lawrence's face was still partially hidden, his brow tense with the small agony of that unrelenting itch and the underlying frustration of knowing that he wouldn't be rid of it after the next sneeze, or the one after that. Oliver stretched his arm past the headrest, at last, and pressed the packet into Lawrence's limp, free hand. His fingers curled around it, gratefully, only managing to wrestle it halfway open before giving up and burying his face helplessly in his crook of his arm this time.  
  
“EH-- ** _ISSH_** uh!”

“Bless you...” Agnes offered, tentatively. Oliver folded both of his arms back around the seat, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t mind if your shortcut worked both ways, right about now,” came Lawrence’s muffled confession from behind one flannel sleeve.  
  
Oliver’s mouth tilted into a wry smile, “Listen, man, that 'Thriller' shit is embarrassing. Talk about a stereotype. Plus,” he pointed two fingers at his own temple and gave them a twist. “There’s a reason most people don’t do the fast-travel thing. It's not a  _good_  feeling. I’ll have a headache for the rest of the night.”  
  
Lawrence dropped his arm heavily at last and plucked a few tissues from the dwindling packet.  
  
"I guess it isn't a contest..." Oliver added quietly.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you sound much worse than earlier, dude,” Agnes hummed sympathetically, “Remind me to make you something for that when we get home.”

The word had slipped out so easily, but all three of them felt its gravity for the rest of the ride.


	4. Chapter 4

It was 4:10 am and a light was on across the street.

Just one, blazing electric against the cold patchwork of darkened windows. The spectral blues of TV screens spilled out onto the street, still projecting their best material to an audience of closed eyelids.

Oliver tipped his head back and blew a dingy smoke halo straight up, watching it drift apart in gauzy shreds. He wasn’t worried about the neighbors. That light was always on at this hour, when the only other things daring to interrupt the dead of night were the rattling keys of third-shift workers and the agitated yowls of alley cats who hadn’t yet graduated to prowling the denser downtown. Otherwise, it was fair to assume that not a single soul on the block was left awake-- except for him, and whoever occupied the third-floor corner apartment of the Azalea Gardens Assisted Living Facility across the way.

The steel grating gave a feeble clang underfoot as he leaned on the railing. It had become a habit to speculate about who lived in that apartment-- a lone creature of the night, content with leading a quiet, isolating existence in exchange for safety and steady meals? A nocturnal granny, fully-human, mainlining Westerns past the witching hour, when no one was awake to stop her? Whenever the light was on, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship with whoever lived out whatever kind of life beyond those Venetian blinds in the middle of the night.

Every so often, hints of nightlife did make enough noise to reach his metal perch. Blaring sirens or rollicking shouts echoed in the alleyway, sometimes. If he closed his eyes, they almost sounded close by. He could almost pretend he was still a part of it.

Oliver had been halfway through his second cigarette and three-fourths of the way through inventing a new backstory for the third-floor neighbor when a muffled sound jerked his attention away from the city center, away from the mundane mysteries of his neighbor’s private life, off the fire escape and back through the window behind him. It was as if the free end of his focus had been tethered to his ailing housemate this entire time, and all it took was a wayward cough or sneeze from down the hall to reel it back in.

His eyes fixed automatically on the window again. For once, the night didn’t just belong to the two of them, and with every reminder of that fact, a hot, agitated feeling knotted tighter in the pit of his stomach.

The light in the corner apartment flicked out. That settled it.

Oliver raked his cigarette against the brick facade in a tiny shower of ash and ember and flicked the remnants into a floral mug that had found its way onto the window ledge. The unsmoked half dropped in with an angry sizzle, doused in what may have once been someone’s tea on a sunny morning, but was now a swirling, grimy soup of rainwater and cigarette butts.

He wedged the window open behind him just a crack and crept down the vertical ladder, footfalls delicate on the metal rungs. Upon reaching the lower platform, he wound both legs over the railing and leapt the last few feet to the ground below. He had a few precious seconds to feel smug about the smooth landing before his shin caught against a low garden wall. Half-stumbling around the corner, he hissed a curse, less because it had hurt and more because it was always like this-- always sneaking in and out, always fumbling around in the dark.

Oliver steadied his balance, hastily buttoned his shirt to the neck, and stalked off towards the city without another glance back at either one of those windows.  
 

* * *

 

Nearly 5:00 am and he wavered outside the door, staring deeply into the peeling, off-white paint.

Despite its modest size, the apartment had become an accidental locus. Friends and allies came and went like strange satellites anytime they needed a word, a meal, or a place to sleep. There was a strange sort of backwards intimacy in living with relative strangers-- knowing their habits before knowing their history. The handful of full-time residents had learned to appreciate “safety in numbers” in exchange for any expectation of true privacy. Still, Oliver waited, one hand clutching a small bottle close to his chest, the other wrist braced against the doorway. He waited until he was absolutely certain that he heard the faint, sporadic tacking of keys and dutifully-muffled coughing on the other side of the door, then rapped softly with two knuckles.

“Come in,” came the reply, in a voice with every corner sanded off by weariness and congestion. And  _still inviting in whoever might be lurking in the hallway in the middle of the night_ , Oliver noted, twisting the knob.

“You’re killing me, Lawrence…”

The room was sparse, but with all the broken-in warmth of wood flooring and maroon walls that the others lacked in favor of the standard-issue Apartment Nearly-Whites and wobbly tiling. There was a mismatched anachronism to everything inside; like centuries’ worth of tenants had each forgotten exactly one of their belongings in that room until the eventual sum of their forgetfulness had furnished the entire thing. Lawrence was perched cross-legged in the middle of the bed, hunched over a shabby laptop with an array of dog-eared files fanned out across the mattress like plumage. He glanced up absently. The small crease between his eyebrows had never quite smoothed out from earlier.

“I could hear you from the fire escape,” Oliver clarified, bumping the door closed behind him with one hip. “You sound awful.”

Even with unilateral vision and the stretch of empty room between them, Oliver could read exhaustion written all over him. There was a bowing to his posture that had never been there before-- an unseen gravity tugging at his shoulders suggested that he was sitting propped against his own willpower and nothing more.

“And you’re…  _working?_  Now?  _Right_ now?” Oliver had tried to wring all of the concern out of his voice and aim for incredulous ribbing instead.

Lawrence stretched to collect all of the crumpled tissues also cluttering the sheets, dropping them into a nearby wastebasket with a swift subtlety as if he could sweep the evidence of how poorly he felt out of his housemate’s sight and memory so easily.

“I couldn’t--” after a useless attempt at clearing his throat, Lawrence cocked his head with a shallow, somber chuckle as if it were a private joke between the two of them, “I  _really_  couldn’t sleep.”

“Because of... all that?” Oliver raised an eyebrow as Lawrence smothered a volley of tense coughs into the back of his wrist. “Or, uh…” he flung his arms wide in a motion somewhere between a helpless shrug and a sweeping gesture to indicate ‘the rest of it’.

"Hmm, both," Lawrence conceded, plucking a fresh handful of tissues from the box resting on a dark-stained, heavy-looking chest-turned-nightstand by his bedside. He pressed them under his nose, obviously not for the first time that night given the pinkness that had started to creep in at the edges. He pressed harder. If not for a sharp flinch of shoulders and the shaky exhale of misplaced tension that followed, there would be little indication that he’d just suppressed a sneeze. Oliver frowned, wondering how many times he’d gotten away with doing that in the past few days when no one was watching. However long Lawrence had been trying not to get sick, his current symptoms couldn't be subdued a moment longer. A few seconds of teasing silence passed before the sneeze finally caught up with him, relentless.  
  
" _Eh,_  sorry, _I--"_ a few breathless syllables managed to tumble out of him before a three-tiered gasp caught in his chest. He waved a hand vaguely at his own face to complete the explanation before angling sharply away and sneezing into a closed fist.

"-- _ih_ d' ** _SSH_ uh**!”

Oliver eyed the shadow that pooled above Lawrence's clavicle as his neck muscles tensed with the effort. Lawrence remained frozen there for a moment, eyebrows drawn into a scowl, poised in uncertainty, not quite trusting it to be over. Eventually, he lowered his hand and dragged two more tissues from the box with a few dissatisfied, parting sniffles. He straightened up to face Oliver with a hazy, expectant gaze-- obviously wondering what had prompted this visit, but too polite or too worn-out to ask. Oliver adjusted his posture, too, remembering that he hadn’t barged in empty-handed.

“Yeah, so-- I think my sister forgot about you the second she laid eyes on her pillow,” he said with a crooked shrug. “I don’t really know what she had planned for you, anyway. You know it’s everyone’s favorite joke, these days,” he sawed the air in front of his face with his free hand as though dictating from an invisible headline, “ _‘Magic In These Modern Times And_ Still _No Cure for the Common Cold!’_ ” Oliver found his gaze wandering up the wall behind Lawrence, landing on a vibrant etching of some mythical creature he didn’t recognize. “-- but, who knows? I guess if anyone’s going to figure that one out, it’ll be her...” he trailed off, still eyeing the two-dimensional beast. It had three heads in profile, one twisted left, the others right. All breathing fire. If Lawrence had noticed the twinge of bitterness in Oliver’s voice, he’d let it pass without comment.

“In the meantime,” Oliver brandished the blue bottle in his left hand, giving it an evocative slosh, “I got you the old-fashioned stuff. It’s no substitute for, uh-- witchcraft, _but..._ ” he shut one eye and squinted at the label with the other. “I  _did try_  to get you the good shit, but it turns out you need an ID for everything these days, and mine’s a little out of date,” his lip curled into an irreverent sneer. “If I’d’a known I’d be a felony one day, I might’ve been a little more on-top-of my paperwork.”

“You didn’t have to do that...”

“ _Oh_ , but I  _really_  did,” Oliver picked at the plastic seal on the medicine bottle with his fingernail for a moment, then sighed. “You-- we were a little worried about you, the way you were talking in the car. I hope you don’t really think any of that’s true.”

Lawrence remained stone-faced, bathed in blue from the residual light of the laptop screen. Oliver gave up using his hands and ripped the plastic seal open with his teeth. He spat out a few flecks of plastic and crossed the room, dropping the bottle on the nightstand.

“I have something gross to show you,” he announced with a conspiratorial grin. “I need to move the True Crime Unit, though,” he added, already halfway through gathering the files into a haphazard stack and tossing them to the floor. He sunk heavily onto the edge of the bed and began to roll up his sleeve. Lawrence raised his eyebrows, bemused, but curious.

“So.” Oliver declared, with a subtext pleading,  _hear me out_ , “A few years ago, I thought it would be a really great idea to move across the country, right? Agnes was still in school and we weren’t really  _talking_ , and-- so, the ‘apartment’ I ended up with--” he paused in fiddling with his sleeve to wave a set of sloppy air-quotes, “-- it was  _less_  of a studio and  _more_  of a garden shed behind this rich old witch’s house.” He stopped again, shaking his head, “Don’t picture a geriatric, Hansel and Gretel situation, like… she was in her 60s and went jogging every morning. Definitely got out more than I did in those days. But she introduced herself as a witch from the get-go. And I believed her. She lived in this huge mansion all alone, and the thing was charmed to the nines. She was  _at least_  three layers deep in protection spells on that damn thing  _and_  the freak still had an old-fashioned burglar alarm installed, too. She never gave me the numbers, either. Always kept the shades pulled. I never even saw inside.

“Anyway, I guess she was still looking for some pocket change, because she let me rent out the shed behind her single-occupant hotel. And if you think I’m stupid  _now,_ you should’ve seen what I was up to back  _then_ , because sleeping next to her lawnmower seemed like a _dream_  to me. Until-- and she left this part out of the ad--”

He peeled his sleeve back nearly to the shoulder. Not much untouched skin was visible between dark, hanging branches of tattooed greenery. A long, angry scar cracked the length of a willow tree that sprawled across his bicep, splitting it straight down the trunk like a lightning strike.

“-- she was giving me a tour of the grounds and  _casually mentioned_  that they ‘sometimes had problems with werewolves in the summer’. And that  _terrified_  me. I’d never been in a fight, back then. I’d never even had surgery. Failing my road test was probably the most dangerous thing I’d ever done. I couldn’t deal with monsters pounding on my shitty, wooden door once a month, no matter how good the rent looked.

“But here’s what she did: she took me by the shoulders and told me not to worry. She said they had never made it up to the house and they wouldn’t be a problem for me. And then she told me  _exactly_  how to ward off werewolves. And I’m glad you still have your laptop out, ‘cause you’re gonna want to add this hot tip to the archives:

“She told me that all you need to do to keep wolves away is: spill a ring of whisky around whatever you want to protect, say a few pretty words, reach one arm out of that circle, and hit them between the eyes with the flat side of a silver blade. You don’t have to kill them; as long as you make contact, you’ll be fine!

“So, she said that, and she handed me--” he pantomimed taking the items from his unseen landlady, “-- a bottle. And a butter knife. And you know what, Lawrence?” Oliver lowered his voice, conscious that the longer he’d spoken, the farther he’d strayed from a stage whisper. “I felt much better! I wasn’t afraid of werewolves or whatever else could be creeping the cul-de-sac that night. I was  _prepared._ And I know you’re too nice to call me an idiot, but this is the most important part: she looked me dead in the eye when she told me all this. She seemed so...  _sure_. I know it sounds stupid  _now_ , but at the time I  _knew_  those things would never touch me. To this day, I’m not sure if she even thought she was lying to me. Maybe she  _knew_ , too.”

Oliver hastily tugged his shirt sleeve back down. “I know you’re going to hate to hear this, but no one  _knows_  anything anymore. You can’t beat yourself up for not knowing better when it’s Amateur Hour all around the world. Maybe in ten years? Maybe by the time I’m her age, I’ll know a better way to fight a werewolf than wasting a bunch of liquor, slapping it in the face with a butter knife and telling it to get lost, but until then? Your guess is as good as anyone else's. Maybe even a little better."

Silence hung heavy in the room for a few moments. Lawrence snapped the laptop shut and slid it onto the increasingly crowded nightstand at last.

“You’re right,” was all he murmured.

Oliver leaned back on his elbows with an impish grin, “ _Oh, Lawrence_ ,” he crooned, “That’s twice tonight you’ve said that. You must be really sick.”

Lawrence just tipped his head back against the wall with a fond smirk, all bloodshot eyes and that strange, soft sort of stubbornness. “Oliver,” he began gently, trying with no more success to clear his throat behind a closed fist before continuing, “I’m not kicking you out, but I really don’t want you to catch this...”

Oliver squinted up at the ceiling, trying to recall. “I’m actually not sure if I still  _can_.” He wasn’t about to complain in that room about his impeccable health, but the fact that he couldn't conjure up a memory of the last time he'd been unwell sent a marble of frosty dread down his throat, clattering through his ribcage, bouncing to a tinny halt somewhere solid in his stomach where he'd swallowed the knowledge that he'd become something else entirely.

Lawrence opened his mouth to reply, but didn't make it past the first syllable before his features drew tense and his voice wavered like a warped record. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, away from Oliver, heaved one long, steady breath, and sneezed twice towards the floor-- again in that deep, drawn-out, insistent way that wasn’t like him.

" _\--hhd'I **SSHuh**_... hh _h_ \-- _ehD **’ISSHi** uh!_"

Oliver sat up, too, watching the curve of Lawrence’s spine and the restless shift of shoulder blades as he went through a complicated ritual of blowing his nose, raking restless fingers through his hair, drawing a few tentative breaths, then repeating the process. Desperately trying to pull himself together, Oliver realized with a sudden pang of concern. He wasn't genuinely worried about  _this_  part of it. He knew that this just a cold; Lawrence would be as undaunted as if it’d never happened in a couple of days. Even so, there was a tiny, nagging sort of heartache in seeing him this way.

“Don’t worry,” Oliver slid off the edge of the bed to his feet. “I’m kicking myself out. I hope you’ll take those drugs; I went to some trouble,” he gave Lawrence a teasing grin and a rallying pat on the shoulder as he turned to leave. He loitered in the gesture a little longer than intended, startled by the heat radiating through the thin fabric. “You’re, uh…” Oliver withdrew his hand, fingers curling around the warmth that lingered on his palm as if he could take it with him. He took a scolding tone and a few steps towards the door, “You let me talk your damn ear off this whole time while you were feeling this bad?!”

At that distance, Oliver could see the flush that had begun to bloom at the hollows of Lawrence’s cheeks. He flicked Oliver a tired fraction of a smile, “I’m glad you did, honestly…”

Oliver paused on the threshold.

“God, you need to learn to complain more,” he groaned, and shut the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

His fingers trailed on the knob for a moment, eyes fixed on a crack in the floor. He watched the sliver of light disappear from behind his heels. Good.

Oliver swept through the hallway without a sound, not bothering to turn any lights on as he rounded the kitchen counter. There was no mystery left in these rooms; the furniture was practically a part of him now.

He felt the coarse fiber of the battered living room rug under his feet and stopped dead.

A slumbering mass of hair and horns loomed over him in the darkness-- an inky silhouette that swelled and shrank against the pasty near-dawn light peeping through the living room window. One thick arm spilled off the couch, trailing halfway across the floor.

“Aw--! Come on, Val--!” Oliver hissed. He jabbed an elbow into the great beast, trying to burrow a space between whatever most closely resembled a hairy shoulder and the couch, but the creature’s body slid smoothly back into place each time. “‘I can turn into anyone I want,’” he grumbled to himself, putting on a dopey, mocking voice, “‘But whenever I crash at my friend’s two-bedroom apartment, I  _just_ prefer to nap as the Minotaur!’”

After a few futile attempts to carve out territory on one of the cushions, Oliver slumped against the beast’s shaggy side and slid resignedly to the floor, giving it a few begrudgingly affectionate pats on the way down. He pressed his cheek against the creature’s warm body, letting his head rise and and fall with each snore.

He closed his eyes and huffed a bitter wisp of a laugh.  
  
The first bird of daybreak chirped outside the window.


End file.
